


Innovation in Form

by thegreatpumpkin



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M, fantasy world version of strip poker, you know Celegorm was the originator of that game for sure
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-31
Updated: 2016-10-31
Packaged: 2018-08-28 02:50:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8428549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegreatpumpkin/pseuds/thegreatpumpkin
Summary: “It’s really a quite simple game,” Celebrimbor said cheerfully, shuffling the cards. “The stag beats all when he’s in the hand, but other than that everything’s face value. Predators trump prey if there’s a tie.”Annatar watched his hands. “I see. And where does the removal of clothing fit in?”





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thegildedmagpie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegildedmagpie/gifts).



> Eight million years ago, Magpie had a birthday. I am terrible with timing, but hopefully not terrible with gifting! <3

“It’s really a quite simple game,” Celebrimbor said cheerfully, shuffling the cards. “The stag beats all when he’s in the hand, but other than that everything’s face value. Predators trump prey if there’s a tie.”

Annatar watched his hands, not subtly. They _were_ one of Celebrimbor’s finest features. But more to the point, Tyelpe always seemed to get happily flustered when Annatar showed interest in his physical form, and he was far worse at saying _no_ when he was flustered. “I see. And where does the removal of clothing fit in?”

Celebrimbor startled, then laughed. “I don’t know who you’ve been talking to. That’s a Nargothrond variant. My…” he hesitated, then forged on, “my uncle used to play it that way. It’s not the standard game, certainly.”

Celebrimbor was less biddable when he dwelled too much on his discarded family; Annatar would need to steer him clear of that topic. He let his expression grow slightly wistful and disappointed, then cleared it away with a smile, as if he were trying to hide the emotion. “I suppose we can wager with forge chores if you prefer. You know I don’t keep much in the way of coin.”

Celebrimbor seized on that brief flash of longing, interest showing in his eyes even as his ears pinked faintly at the tips. “I admit I’ve played a game or two in my time. What’s a little skin between friends?”

Annatar looked him over, then glanced down at the cards quickly, as if he didn’t want to be caught looking. He’d spotted three pockets, plus Celebrimbor’s wide waistband, where the plans he wanted might be tucked. “No, no, if that’s not how it’s done in Eregion, I’d rather learn the proper version. You wouldn’t want me to embarrass myself with your Gwaith-i-Mírdain.”

Celebrimbor grinned. “Why, Annatar, are you getting cold feet? You brought it up, after all. I can always teach you the Eregion variant later.” And then, teasingly, “I don’t know why you’re worried. You have many more layers to lose.”

“I am not,” Annatar leaned in, letting his smile turn challenging, “ _worried._ ” Celebrimbor had folded the plans away earlier when Annatar had come into the forge, with some excuse about not wanting him to see them until he’d worked out the problems. Annatar had only gotten the barest glimpse, but it had been an enticing one. He’d planned to sneak a look when Celebrimbor retired for the evening, but then he’d tucked them away somewhere on his person. “I was simply giving you the opportunity to withdraw gracefully. Remember that when you’re shivering in nothing but your skin, Tyelpe.”

“Strong words from a beginner!” Celebrimbor leaned in too, his elbows on the table. “Your extra layers are simply to make things fair.”

“We shall see. What are the rules, then?” Annatar would have to lose a bit early on—to buy Celebrimbor’s complacency, of course, but also to keep his eyes on something other than his own discarded clothing.

Judging by the badly-suppressed hunger in his companion’s expression, it wouldn’t exactly be difficult.

~

“No,” Narvi cackled, “I heard—” she paused to take another swig from the bottle they’d been passing around— “I heard they have _tentacles_. Like a cuttlefish! Not where you can see ‘em, of course.”

“You’re drunk,” Celebrimbor said, which was rich for him to say, in his present state. “You’re just saying the wildest things you can think of.”

“‘M not!” Narvi insisted, waving the bottle at him. “It might only be the ones under Mahal, he likes a bit of innovation in form, you know.”

“Don’t I,” Celebrimbor said, then grinned at her.

“Oi! Don’t start an arms race you won’t win, boyo, I have plenty more to say about elven forms than you’d like to hear.” She nearly dropped the bottle with the forcefulness of her faux-threatening gesture, and he rescued it from her to have another swig.

“Anyway, wouldn’t it make more sense for Ulmo’s maiar to be the ones with tentacles?” he mused, wiping his mouth on his sleeve.

“Well, maybe they all do, then. Anyway. The point is,” Narvi wiggled her double-jointed fingers in a way that gave far too clear a picture, and chortled with glee at Celebrimbor’s expression, “ _tentacles._ ” And then, a little indignantly— “Pass that back, you’re not drinking all of it!”

“You are a terror.” He fended her off with one long arm, curling protectively around the bottle. “I am drinking every drop, and you can’t stop me. With luck I won’t remember this conversation in the morning.”

“No chance,” she said merrily. “You’ll be hard at work, and make the mistake of glancing my way, and…” again the finger wiggle, and a wicked grin, “ _tentacles._ ”

He groaned. She would do it, too.

~

Celebrimbor was, as it happened, a devilishly good card player. It was not at all difficult for Annatar to have a losing streak at the beginning—the tricky part, it turned out, was to _stop_ losing at some point.

“Jewelry doesn’t count,” Celebrimbor said firmly, absolutely unswayed by Annatar’s pretty pout. “Otherwise neither of us would have any stake in the game at all.” Tyelpe did have a point, of course, given Annatar wanted him out of that tunic as soon as possible—he very much doubted that the plans were stowed in one of the wide gold bands that flattered Celebrimbor's biceps.

He decided to sacrifice a boot, given he’d already lost his robe and sash, along with the two shirts beneath, and so far Celebrimbor had only had to part with the scarf he’d used to bind back his hair for forge-work earlier. Annatar wasn’t entirely certain how the elf managed to keep his eyes on his cards, given how much time they spent dwelling on Annatar’s bare chest, but apparently he was going to need a new tactic.

“If I fetch the wine, can I trust you not to sneak a peek at my cards while my back is turned?” he teased, rising smoothly.

“I don’t need to cheat to win,” Celebrimbor returned, all too smug. “What was that about _shivering in my skin,_ earlier? Maybe I should stoke the fire for you, I wouldn’t want you to suffer the double indignity of losing _and_ goosepimples.”

Annatar laughed, pouring Celebrimbor a glass he had not asked for. “Do you think one of Aulë’s own could ever be cold? My kind has a few adaptations that yours does not. Not that it matters, as this—” he gestured to himself before setting the goblet down in front of Celebrimbor, and his own beside his cards— “is only a temporary setback.”

He expected more banter, but Tyelpe’s expression had gone strange, and he mouthed _adaptations_ silently to himself before he realized Annatar was looking at him, curious. He cleared his throat, looking uncomfortable. “I do forget. It’s easy to forget, you look so like—” Annatar did not even have to encourage him to drink; he drew a long swallow from his cup instead of going on.

It had obviously been a misstep reminding him of the distance between their relative existences, but Annatar was sure he could put things back on track. “Well,” he said, dropping his voice low and warm, “I’m sure we are alike in all the _crucial_ ways. Is it my turn?”

Celebrimbor made a ‘go ahead’ gesture, but his brow was still creased. Well, wine would smooth that over soon enough.

~

He had to be cheating. Annatar had not worked out _how_ , precisely, but that was the only explanation—after all, Annatar was cheating furiously, and still, somehow, he was losing. Celebrimbor had sacrificed both shoes and his belt, but was still entirely decent.

Annatar, on the other hand, was down to his last garment, and all out of good sportsmanship.

It was infuriating. It wasn’t that his distraction tactics had missed their mark. Celebrimbor was undeniably in his cups, flushed and merry and over-inclined to giggling. And he’d only grown more rapt as Annatar had bared more skin, his eyes carefully marking every inch as if mapping it. True, his laughter had grown almost nervous at times, especially when Annatar had had to remove his trousers, but the point was that he was _clearly_ distracted and therefore had no right to be playing as well as he was.

Never mind. Annatar had a hand full of high-value predators, and he didn’t actually need _sleeves_ to keep a few extra cards up his sleeve, being what he was. He fanned the cards out on the table, giving Celebrimbor a smile that mirrored the one on his jaguar card. “I think I can preserve my modesty for just a _bit_ longer.”

Celebrimbor looked nervous again, and Annatar had just enough time to enjoy the expression before he laid down his own cards. “I’m afraid not, my friend. It seems I found the hart.”

Annatar bit down hard on his tongue, counting to five before he spoke to let the fury settle. How on _Arda_ could he—it could not be borne. Well, there were other ways to get him out of his clothes and distracted, and if Annatar had been saving _that_ particular manipulation for a special occasion, well...that would just have to be sacrificed. He was not about to be thwarted in what should have been a perfectly simple mission.

He sprawled back in his chair, letting his fingers linger on the ties of his braies, glancing up at Celebrimbor from beneath his lashes. “I suppose that’s the game, then. Is it customary for the loser to give a forfeit?” He let a slow smile creep across his mouth. “What would you have of me?”

Celebrimbor swallowed hard. It seemed he could not even drag his eyes up to Annatar’s face, he was watching so intently for the garment to come off. “You don’t—that is, I wouldn’t ask anything you weren’t—”

“May I make a suggestion?” Annatar said silkily, standing and pushing the braies down and off in one smooth motion. “As you see, we are not so different in the particulars.”

He had built this form very carefully, with exquisite attention to detail, and with a great deal of knowledge about elven beauty standards. He knew to the minutest calculation how appealing it was to the Eldar—or more specifically, the Noldor. His thighs were a precisely calibrated balance of muscle and softness, the dark golden curls placed perfectly to frame his well-shaped cock—above average size, but not so large as to be intimidating. He knew what was revealed beneath the braies to be impeccably crafted, because _he had damn well crafted it_.

So it was not unreasonable to feel more than a little incensed when Celebrimbor looked, well, _disappointed._

~

Narvi caught Celebrimbor’s eye across the forge the next morning, wiggling her fingers; before she could say anything, he wadded up his leather apron and threw it at her.

“You,” he said fiercely, as she chortled to herself, “are full of _shit._ ”

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Hunt the Hart](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8700700) by [LiveOakWithMoss](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LiveOakWithMoss/pseuds/LiveOakWithMoss)




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